World Without End by Ken Follett

  Tilly stood up. She looked exhausted and frightened. "I'm so sorry to startle you," she said.

  Caris was relieved. Tilly had attended the nuns' school and lived at the nunnery for years, and she was fond of Caris. She could be trusted not to make a fuss about the kiss she had seen. But what was she doing here? "Are you all right?" Caris said.

  "I'm a bit tired," Tilly said. She staggered, and Caris caught her arm.

  The baby cried. Merthin took the child and rocked him expertly. "There, there, my little nephew," he said. The crying fell to a mild grizzle of discontent.

  Caris said to Tilly: "How did you get here?"

  "I walked."

  "From Tench Hall? Carrying Gerry?" The baby was now six months old, and no easy burden.

  "It took me three days."

  "My goodness. Has something happened?"

  "I ran away."

  "Didn't Ralph come after you?"

  "Yes, with Alan. I hid in the forest while they went by. Gerry was very good and didn't cry."

  The picture brought a lump to Caris's throat. "But..." She swallowed. "But why did you run away?"

  "Because my husband wants to kill me," Tilly said, and she burst into tears.

  Caris sat her down and Merthin brought her a cup of wine. They let her sob. Caris sat on the bench beside her and put an arm around her shoulders while Merthin cradled baby Gerry. When at last Tilly had cried herself out, Caris said: "What has Ralph done?"

  Tilly shook her head. "Nothing. It's just the way he looks at me. I know he wants to murder me."

  Merthin muttered: "I wish I could say my brother is incapable of that."

  Caris said: "But why would he want to do such a terrible thing?"

  "I don't know," Tilly said miserably. "Ralph went to Uncle William's funeral. There was a lawyer from London there, Sir Gregory Longfellow."

  "I know him," Caris said. "A clever man, but I don't like him."

  "It started after that. I have a feeling it's all to do with Gregory."

  Caris said: "You wouldn't have walked all this way, carrying a baby, because of something you just imagined."

  "I know it sounds fanciful, but he just sits and glares at me hatefully. How can a man look at his wife like that?"

  "Well, you've come to the right place," Caris said. "You're safe here."

  "Can I stay?" she begged. "You won't send me back, will you?"

  "Certainly not," said Caris. She caught Merthin's eye. She knew what he was thinking. It would be rash to give Tilly a guarantee. Fugitives might take refuge in churches, as a general principle, but it was very doubtful whether a nunnery had the right to shelter a knight's wife and keep her from him indefinitely. Moreover Ralph would certainly be entitled to make her give up the baby, his son and heir. All the same, Caris put as much confidence into her voice as she could and said: "You can stay here just as long as you like."

  "Oh, thank you."

  Caris silently prayed that she would be able to keep her promise.

  "You could live in one of the special guest rooms upstairs in the hospital," she said.

  Tilly looked troubled. "But what if Ralph should come in?"

  "He wouldn't dare. But if it makes you feel safer, you can have Mother Cecilia's old room, at the end of the nuns' dormitory."

  "Yes, please."

  A priory servant came in to lay the table for dinner. Caris said to Tilly: "I'll take you to the refectory. You can have dinner with the nuns, then lie down in the dormitory and rest." She stood up.

  Suddenly she felt dizzy. She put a hand on the table to steady herself. Merthin, still holding baby Gerry, said anxiously: "What's wrong?"

  "I'll be fine in a moment," Caris said. "I'm just tired."

  Then she fell to the floor.

  Merthin felt a tidal wave of panic. For an instant, he was stunned. Caris had never been ill, never helpless--she was the one who took care of the sick. He could not think of her as a victim.

  The moment passed like a blink. Fighting down his fear, he carefully handed the baby to Tilly.

  The servant girl had stopped laying the table and stood staring in shock at the unconscious form of Caris on the floor. Merthin deliberately made his voice calm but urgent and said to her: "Run to the hospital and tell them Mother Caris is ill. Bring Sister Oonagh. Go on now, as quick as you can!" She hurried away.

  Merthin knelt beside Caris. "Can you hear me, my darling?" he said. He picked up her limp hand and patted it, then touched her cheek, then lifted an eyelid. She was out cold.

  Tilly said: "She's got the plague, hasn't she?"

  "Oh, God." Merthin took Caris in his arms. He was a slight man, but he had always been able to lift heavy objects, building stones and timber beams. He lifted her easily and stood upright, then laid her gently on the table. "Don't die," he whispered. "Please don't die."

  He kissed her forehead. Her skin was hot. He had felt it when they embraced a few minutes ago, but he had been too excited to worry. Perhaps that was why she had been so passionate: fever could have that effect.

  Sister Oonagh came in. Merthin was so grateful to see her that tears came to his eyes. She was a young nun, only a year or two out of her novitiate, but Caris thought highly of her nursing skill and was grooming her to take responsibility for the hospital one day.

  Oonagh wrapped a linen mask over her mouth and nose and tied it in a knot behind her neck. Then she touched Caris's forehead and cheek. "Did she sneeze?" she said.

  Merthin wiped his eyes. "No," he answered. He felt sure he would have noticed: a sneeze was an ominous sign.

  Oonagh pulled down the front of Caris's robe. To Merthin she looked agonizingly vulnerable with her small breasts exposed. But he was glad to see there was no rash of purple-black spots on her chest. Oonagh covered her up again. She looked up Caris's nostrils. "No bleeding," she said. She felt Caris's pulse thoughtfully.

  After a few moments she looked at Merthin. "This may not be the plague, but it seems a serious illness. She's feverish, her pulse is rapid, and her breathing is shallow. Carry her upstairs, lay her down, and bathe her face with rose water. Anyone who attends her must wear a mask and wash their hands as if she had the plague. That includes you." She gave him a linen strip.

  Tears rolled down his face as he tied the mask. He carried Caris upstairs, put her on the mattress in her room, and straightened her clothing. The nuns brought rose water and vinegar. Merthin told them of Caris's instructions regarding Tilly, and they took the young mother and baby to the refectory. Merthin sat beside Caris, patting her forehead and cheeks with a rag damped with the fragrant liquid, praying for her to come round.

  At last she did. She opened her eyes, frowned in puzzlement, then looked anxious and said: "What happened?"

  "You fainted," he said.

  She tried to sit up.

  "Keep still," he said. "You're sick. It's probably not the plague, but you have a serious illness."

  She must have felt weak, for she lay back on the pillow without further protest. "I'll just rest for an hour," she said.

  She was in bed for two weeks.

  After three days the whites of her eyes turned the color of mustard, and Sister Oonagh said she had the yellow jaundice. Oonagh prepared an infusion of herbs sweetened with honey, which Caris drank hot three times a day. The fever receded, but Caris remained weak. She inquired anxiously about Tilly every day, and Oonagh answered her questions, but refused to discuss any other aspect of life in the nunnery, in case it should tire Caris. Caris was too enfeebled to fight her.

  Merthin did not leave the prior's palace. In the daytime he sat downstairs, close enough to hear her call, and his employees came to him for instructions about the various buildings they were putting up or tearing down. At night he lay on a mattress beside her and slept lightly, waking every time her breathing changed or she turned over in her bed. Lolla slept in the next room.

  At the end of the first week, Ralph showed up.

  "My wife has disappeared," he said as
he walked into the hall of the prior's palace.

  Merthin looked up from a drawing he was making on a large slate. "Hello, brother," he said. Ralph looked shifty, he thought. Clearly he had mixed feelings about Tilly's disappearance. He was not fond of her, but on the other hand no man likes his wife to run away.

  Perhaps I have mixed feelings, too, Merthin thought guiltily. After all, I did help his wife to leave him.

  Ralph sat on a bench. "Have you got any wine? I'm parched."

  Merthin went to the sideboard and poured from a jug. It crossed his mind to say he had no idea where Tilly could be, but his instinct revolted from the idea of lying to his own brother, especially about something so important. Besides, Tilly's presence at the priory could not be kept secret: too many nuns, novices, and employees had seen her here. It was always best to be honest, Merthin thought, except in dire emergency. Handing the cup to Ralph, he said: "Tilly is here, at the nunnery, with the baby."

  "I thought she might be." Ralph lifted the cup in his left hand, showing the stumps of his three severed fingers. He took a long draft. "What's the matter with her?"

  "She ran away from you, Ralph."

  "You should have let me know."

  "I feel bad about that. But I couldn't betray her. She's frightened of you."

  "Why take sides with her against me? I'm your brother!"

  "Because I know you. If she's scared, there's probably a reason."

  "This is outrageous." Ralph was trying to appear indignant, but the act was unconvincing.

  Merthin wondered what he really felt.

  "We can't throw her out," Merthin said. "She's asked for sanctuary."

  "Gerry's my son and heir. You can't keep him from me."

  "Not indefinitely, no. If you start a legal action, I'm sure you'll win. But you wouldn't try to separate him from his mother, would you?"

  "If he comes home, she will."

  That was probably true. Merthin was casting around for another way of persuading Ralph when Brother Thomas came in, bringing Alan Fernhill with him. With his one hand, Thomas was holding Alan's arm, as if to prevent him from running away. "I found him snooping," he said.

  "I was just looking around," Alan protested. "I thought the monastery was empty."

  Merthin said: "As you see, it's not. We've got one monk, six novices, and a couple of dozen orphan boys."

  Thomas said: "Anyway, he wasn't in the monastery, he was in the nuns' cloisters."

  Merthin frowned. He could hear a psalm being sung in the distance. Alan had timed his incursion well: all the nuns and novices were in the cathedral for the service of Sext. Most of the priory buildings were deserted at this hour. Alan had probably been walking around unhindered for some time.

  This did not seem like idle curiosity.

  Thomas added: "Fortunately, a kitchen hand saw him and came to fetch me out of the church."

  Merthin wondered what Alan had been looking for. Tilly? Surely he would not have dared to snatch her from a nunnery in broad daylight. He turned to Ralph. "What are you two plotting?"

  Ralph batted the question off to Alan. "What did you think you were doing?" he said wrathfully, though Merthin thought the anger was faked.

  Alan shrugged. "Just looking around while I waited for you."

  It was not plausible. Idle men-at-arms waited for their masters in stables and taverns, not cloisters.

  Ralph said: "Well...don't do it again."

  Merthin realized that Ralph was going to stick with this story. I was honest with him, but he's not being honest with me, he thought sadly. He returned to the more important subject. "Why don't you leave Tilly be for a while?" he said to Ralph. "She'll be perfectly all right here. And perhaps, after a while, she'll realize you mean her no harm, and come back to you."

  "It's too shaming," Ralph said.

  "Not really. A noblewoman sometimes spends a few weeks at a monastery, if she feels the need to retire from the world for a while."

  "Usually when she's been widowed, or her husband has gone off to war."

  "Not always, though."

  "When there's no obvious reason, people always say she wants to get away from her husband."

  "How bad is that? You might like some time away from your wife."

  "Perhaps you're right," Ralph said.

  Merthin was startled by this response. He had not expected Ralph to be so easily persuaded. It took him a moment to get over the surprise. Then he said: "That's it. Give her three months, then come back and talk to her." Merthin had a feeling that Tilly would never relent, but at least this proposal would postpone the crisis.

  "Three months," said Ralph. "All right." He stood up to go.

  Merthin shook his hand. "How are Mother and Father? I haven't seen them for months."

  "Getting old. Father doesn't leave their house now."

  "I'll come and visit as soon as Caris is better. She's recovering from yellow jaundice."

  "Give her my best wishes."

  Merthin went to the door and watched Ralph and Alan ride away. He felt deeply disturbed. Ralph was up to something, and it was not simply getting Tilly back.

  He returned to his drawing and sat staring at it without seeing it for a long time.

  By the end of the second week it was clear that Caris was going to get better. Merthin was exhausted but happy. Feeling like a man reprieved, he put Lolla to bed early and went out for the first time.

  It was a mild spring evening, and the sun and balmy air made him light-headed. His own tavern, the Bell, was closed for rebuilding, but the Holly Bush was doing brisk business, customers sitting on benches outside with their tankards. There were so many people out enjoying the weather that Merthin stopped and asked the drinkers if it was a holiday today, thinking he might have lost track of the date. "Every day's a holiday now," one said. "What's the point in working, when we're all going to die of the plague? Have a cup of ale."

  "No, thanks." Merthin walked on.

  He noticed that many people wore very fancy clothes, elaborate headgear and embroidered tunics that they would not normally have been able to afford. He presumed they had inherited these garments, or perhaps just taken them from wealthy corpses. The effect was a bit nightmarish: velvet hats on filthy hair, gold threads and food stains, ragged hose and jewel-encrusted shoes.

  He saw two men dressed all in women's clothing, floor-length gowns and wimples. They were walking along the main street arm in arm, like merchants' wives showing off their wealth--but they were unmistakably male, with big hands and feet and hair on their chins. Merthin began to feel disoriented, as if nothing could be relied on anymore.

  As the dusk thickened, he crossed the bridge to Leper Island. He had built a street of shops and taverns there, between the two parts of the bridge. The work was finished, but the buildings were untenanted, with boards nailed across their doors and windows to keep vagrants out. No one lived there but rabbits. The premises would remain empty until the plague died out, and Kingsbridge returned to normal, Merthin supposed. If the plague never went away, they would never be occupied; but, in that eventuality, renting his property would be the least of his worries.

  He returned to the old city just as the gate was closing. There seemed to be a huge party going on at the White Horse Tavern. The house was full of lights, and the crowd filled the road in front of the building. "What's going on?" Merthin asked a drinker.

  "Young Davey's got the plague, and he has no heirs to bequeath the inn to, so he's giving all the ale away," the man said, grinning with delight. "Drink as much as you can hold, it's free!"

  He and many other people had clearly been working on the same principle, and dozens of them were reeling drunk. Merthin pushed his way into the crowd. Someone was banging a drum and others were dancing. He saw a circle of men and looked over their shoulders to see what they were hiding. A very drunk woman of about twenty years was bending over a table while a man entered her from behind. Several other men were clearly waiting their turn. Merthin turned
away in distaste. At the side of the building, half-concealed by empty barrels, his eye lit on Ozzie Ostler, a wealthy horse dealer, kneeling in front of a younger man and sucking his penis. That was against the law, in fact the penalty was death, but clearly no one cared. Ozzie, a married man who was on the parish guild, caught Merthin's eye but did not stop, in fact he continued with more enthusiasm, as if excited by being watched. Merthin shook his head, amazed. Just outside the tavern door was a table laden with partly eaten food: joints of roasted meat, smoked fish, puddings, and cheese. A dog was standing on the table tearing at a ham. A man was throwing up into a bowl of stew. Beside the tavern door Davey Whitehorse sat in a big wooden chair with a huge cup of wine. He was sneezing and sweating, and the characteristic trickle of blood came from his nose, but he was looking around and cheering the revelers on. He seemed to want to kill himself with drink before the plague finished him off.

  Merthin felt nauseated. He left the scene and hurried back to the priory.

  To his surprise, he found Caris up and dressed. "I'm better," she said. "I'm going to return to my usual work tomorrow." Seeing his skeptical look, she added: "Sister Oonagh said I could."

  "If you're taking orders from someone else, you can't be back to normal," he said; and she laughed. The sight brought tears to his eyes. She had not laughed for two weeks, and there had been moments when he had wondered whether he would ever hear the sound again.

  "Where have you been?" she asked.

  He told her about his walk around the town, and the disturbing sights he had seen. "None of it was very wicked," he said. "I just wonder what they'll do next. When all their inhibitions have gone, will they start to kill one another?"

  A kitchen hand brought a tureen of soup for their supper. Caris sipped warily. For a long time, all food had made her feel sick. However, she seemed to find the leek soup palatable, and drank a bowlful.

  When the maid had cleared away, Caris said: "While I was ill, I thought a lot about dying."

  "You didn't ask for a priest."

  "Whether I've been good or bad, I don't think God will be fooled by a last-minute change of heart."

  "What, then?"

  "I asked myself if there was anything I really regretted."